


Blindsided

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM dynamics, Blindfolds, Canon Disabled Character, Consensual NonCon, Dominance, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Ignis fucks up big time, Implied Past Abuse, Implied past torture, M/M, Mild Threat, Poor Prompto, Rape Roleplay, Safewords, angst angst and did I mention angst?, he is too pure for this world, mentions of blindness, sight play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 19:32:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10905993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: It's been five years since they saved the world. Ignis and Prompto are now in a comfortable long-term relationship, and on their anniversary Ignis shyly admits to having some rather dark fantasies he'd like to enact. But for Prompto, some scars don't fade so easily.A story about what happens when roleplay goes horribly wrong.A fill for the good ol' kinkmeme





	Blindsided

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to Bitter Fruit by The Kills for this one.  
> Lemme know if I missed any important tags or if you think anything needs adding!
> 
> This is a fill for the following prompt: https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3451.html?thread=3613563

_It’s just a game._

 

Prompto hasn’t experienced darkness like this since the old days.

            He strains to see beneath the blindfold; the darkness is so complete it’s starting to scare him and he wants to remove it, and almost immediately feels guilty because Ignis, dear Ignis, will never have this option. He breathes in deeply, stops his squirming.

            He doesn’t know where Ignis is in the room. The sound of his footsteps stopped a while ago, but he thinks he remembers hearing them close by? He’s still standing where he’s been left, in the centre of the room, halfway between the sofa and the coffee table, waiting for the game to begin. Didn’t Ignis want this? Hadn’t he practically begged him? Perhaps he was having doubts. It’s unorthodox, after all, what they’re about to do.

            The room steeps in silence.

            ‘Ignis?’

 

***

 

            _‘Ignis?’_

            This was how it had begun: he’d come home early from the workshop, walking through the dusty, narrow streets, still not used to the brightness of the sun. Enjoying the quiet moment before the rush of evening began, he took his time reaching his apartment, which was a decent enough place near the Leville Hotel, close enough for him to relive precious memories from those fifteen years long gone, yet far enough away for him to focus on his new life, on rebuilding Lestallum. The apartment faced southwest, and the sun always caught his eyes when he opened the door, a subtle reminder of everything he’d lost and gained. He’d turned the lock and pushed open the creaking door with a satisfied sigh, relieved to be home on a sunny afternoon like this.

            And he’d found Ignis waiting for him.

            ‘Prompto? Sorry to surprise you like this.’

            Ignis sat in the armchair nearest the door, rigid and pensive in the darkness.

            ‘Not a problem. I’m glad you could make it. I just didn’t expect you so soon.’ He’d crossed the threshold in a flash and leaned in to embrace his partner, not bothering to remove his boots. Letting extra noise clatter around him as he moved was something done by instinct now - anything to let Ignis see him better. He kissed softly, tenderly, despite his lips being so chapped from the day’s work and his throat being so dry from the Lestallum dust. Ignis reciprocated fervently, then broke off to continue talking.

            ‘Cor couldn’t spare the time to wait. I’m sorry I didn’t call beforehand.’

            Of course. Ignis had to rely on whatever lifts he could grab from his fellows in Insomnia. Prompto said nothing, he knew how much this fact frustrated him, even after all these years. Ignis had so loved driving.

            Ignis reached for his hand, kissed it. ‘No matter. It’s nice to see you again, love.’ Then his eyebrows twitched. ‘I could say the same about you, though. Back early from work?’

            ‘Yeah, Holly said I could just head on home. Think she knew what day it was. ‘Sides, I’ve been working my ass off since they got the new parts shipped in.’

            ‘Ah - the new generator?’

            He nodded, and he’d been about to launch into one of his usual animated diatribes on machinery and reclaimed tech, but there was something else there in Ignis’s expression, something troubling that made him hold fire.

            ‘Is everything okay?’

            A moment, in which Ignis had held his breath.

            ‘I’m just tired.’

            He’d been about to say something else, but seemed to have switched out at the last second for this simpler phrase.

            Prompto slipped behind him, hummed as he rubbed his shoulders, releasing the tension he found there. He knew all this work was taking its toll on the man, and Ignis was the sort who hated feeling out of control.

            ‘The new First Secretary keeping you that busy, huh?’

            ‘Well, it’s no easy task, setting up a new government.’

            Ignis was being deliberately vague, so Prompto had left it at that, and had gone to the kitchen to fetch the wine. It was a present from Iris and Gladio - a gift for their anniversary. And, judging by the way Ignis took to it, it must have been good quality.

            ‘Five years, now. Here’s to us.’

            ‘To us.’

            It wasn’t until they were halfway through their second glass that Ignis finally revealed what was on his mind.

            ‘There’s something I’d like to try.’

            ‘You mean… in bed?’

            Ignis nodded, and Prompto immediately felt relieved. He’d worried it would be something serious. The fact they still lived apart due to their jobs - both of which were equally important for the regeneration of the nation - was something he feared Ignis would tire of eventually. But sex - now, that was a thing they could easily remedy.

            ‘Aha! I knew there was something!’

            ‘It’s a little, ah, different.’

            ‘Dude. It’s _me_.’

            But Ignis had seemed troubled. No, embarrassed was a better term.

            ‘I’ve been trying not to think about it for rather a long time. It’s quite dark.’

            ‘Oh yeah? So try me.’

            ‘It’s …’ His voice grew quieter, smaller. ‘Well. It’s a rape fantasy. I’d like to enact it. With you.’

            _A rape roleplay?_

            ‘W-where did that come from?’ Prompto had to check his tremulous tone - he didn’t want Ignis mistaking his first gut reaction for disapproval. He was interested. Shocked, but interested. ‘I mean, is it, like, a control thing?’

            ‘I suppose it is.’

            Well, he’d heard it was a pretty common thing for people to have. And he wasn’t the most dominant person, but he supposed he could try. He liked trying new things. He liked to make Ignis happy. And he’d never know if he himself liked it or not unless they experimented a bit.

            ‘Sure, we could give that a go.’

            ‘There is one thing, though.’ Ignis bit his lip, turned his face away. ‘I should like to be the one fucking you.’

            Oh. _Oh._

            ‘Dude, that is messed up.’ Prompto laughed, trying to keep the tone light, but at the same time, he felt a deep burn rising beneath his skin, a knot of tension uncoiling in his stomach. The spotlight was on him, on his body, and for one short unshakeable moment he felt almost subhuman, a rush of old fears and insecurities washing over him like a rogue wave.

            ‘I … I know.’ Ignis’s voice was so very vulnerable, and it broke through his moment of uncertainty.

            ‘Hey. Hey, don’t be ashamed, okay? That was just a joke. I mean, wouldn’t be the first time we’ve roleplayed. Why not try it?’

            His words weren’t just for Ignis’s benefit. He was a little freaked out by the idea of his boyfriend taking pleasure in pretending to take him by force, but it was fantasy, that was the point. And he loved making Ignis feel good. Especially after he’d just trusted him with something so private, especially when it was clear how afraid he seemed of admitting it. They could plan this out - they could make it work.

            ‘So let’s try it.’ He repeated the sentiment, his voice low and sultry.

            ‘Oh, my love. What did I ever do to deserve you?’ Ignis reached out, traced his fingers across Prompto’s shoulders and Prompto expected his usual gentle calmness. Instead, Ignis shuddered on initiating contact, as though he was damming his own strength, as though he was holding back some terrifying caged desire that shook him to the core.

            For a short second, that glimpse of a darker nature appeared to Prompto in striking clarity, and it scared him. But not enough for him to say no.

 

***

 

Back to now. It’s mere hours later on the same sweltering night, and that clarity has all but vanished. The apprehension, however, remains. The blindfold is tight, too tight, and Prompto’s world is eclipsed, his senses dulled, and he has no hope of anticipating what’s coming next.

            Long and nimble fingers trace lightly across his arms, starting up near his bare shoulders and eliciting a flinch. Hot breath on his neck, a ghost of a kiss that never quite contacts his skin.

            ‘Ignis…’

            He’s excited now, from this soft and tantalising way of starting things, and he’s determined, so determined to play his part and play it well. He waits for Ignis to do something rougher, to enact what he promised.

            The distant revving of cars a few streets away sounds acutely in his ears. He’s drawn to the noise in the absence of light. There’s a failing engine somewhere. The chittering of crepuscular birds in what must be the gathering dusk. Casual chatter of people out on the town. And Ignis’s breath sounding so soft, so enticing, upon his neck. The hands tracing patterns on his shoulders travel downwards, seize his wrists, softly at first, then harder, almost to the point of pain. He utters a high, vulnerable cry, and the breath on his neck hitches. There’s that reined-in ferocity again.

            ‘Oh, I’ve wanted you like this for a long time.’ Ignis is whispering and his voice has that edge to it he usually reserves for diplomatic situations where someone has dangerously overstepped their bounds. Prompto has never heard that tone and seen Ignis lose; whether in a debate or a fight, it didn’t matter. He continues, seeding Prompto’s ears with dark words. ‘I’ve been biding my time - I don’t need eyes to watch you. I know everything about you, my angel. And I’m going to have you any way I want you tonight.’

            Then, with no warning at all, Ignis slams him hard against the wall, catching the side of his head on the edge of a shelf and he yells, unable to stop himself, feeling nerves throb and pulse in inconsolable agony. He may be wearing a blindfold but he sees a flare of reddish light for a second, before it fades into a low maroon pulse that blossoms across the darkness in time with the beats of his heart.

            He’s sure that later he’ll say it was an accident, something that only happened because Ignis wasn’t able to see what he was doing. But he knows damn well that Ignis is aware of the position of every last item in that room. Blindness is not a barrier to that keen intellect and razor-sharp memory. Ignis knew, of course he knew. That was meant to hurt.

            He has no space to cry out or scrabble for purchase; Ignis is upon him and sure, Prompto’s got muscles enough but Ignis has always been taller, always been stronger. All those years of dedication and single-minded training for the role of the King’s advisor and protector make for hard habits to break. Even after losing his sight, Ignis has never lost the drive to keep up his training, and he has a body like a gymnast to show for it. He’s leaner, and his muscles are not as pronounced as Prompto’s, but that’s deceptive. He presses down, holding Prompto firm against the wall at angles that make it impossible to fight against.

            There should be some attempt at give and take, though, because Prompto is so, so keen to make the scene realistic. And besides, he enjoys struggling while being pinned. His biceps tense with the mild effort he puts forth until Ignis overpowers him, using his own fighting momentum to pull him forward, only to slam him back against the wall. Kisses land at random across his face, his neck, his shoulders, and then Ignis presses into the soft hollow beneath his ear and speaks in a husky voice dripping with lust.

            ‘Fight all you like, my beauty - you’re not getting out of this.’

            Prompto lets his breath shudder out, and speaks his fake denial, injects some fear into it.

            ‘No … No, please don’t …’

            At this he feels Ignis’s erection stiffen against his thigh. Ignis speaks again and his voice is still that animalistic, throaty growl. Perhaps the most worrying thing is that, while it’s unfamiliar, it doesn’t seem out of place.

            ‘Oh, this has been a long time coming.’

            Now Ignis tugs at his belt, teasing the leather away from the clasp with an urgency that doesn’t belong to him. Prompto struggles again, gets his hand squashed cruelly between his head and the jutting shelf. He squeals because _gods_ , this _hurts_ , and he ignores the real pain in favour of keeping the mood electric for the man he loves. He wants this to be good, he wants this to be fun, but the pain is starting to make that hard.

            He yelps again for effect, and feels Ignis smile into his neck.

            It takes mere seconds of fervent, deft manipulation and his pants loosen, slipping down enough to expose his boxer shorts and Ignis tugs them off, the anger at the final layer of fabric awkwardly separating him from his prize showing through in the way he grips too hard, to the point of tearing the material.

            Ignis is _really_ getting into this.

            And the weirdest thing is, so is Prompto. He can feel his cock pulsing, already firm from the rough treatment. When Ignis reaches down to grasp it he can hear his sharp intake of breath and he knows he’s elated.

            ‘You filthy little slut… Your body knows you want this.’

            He doesn’t know how he feels about this kind of dirty talk. The mind-body disconnect. It’s not really his thing, but it’s hardly worth using their safeword for. So he rides it out, continues to play.

            ‘No, I - I don’t …’

            ‘You can lie all you like, but you can’t hide the way your body responds to me. It knows you were built for this.’

            _You were built for this._

            Tendons twitch in his neck and his façade breaks.

            No. Why did he have to say that? Those words …

            Those words have never truly left him. Fifteen long years disappear in the blink of an eye and when he hears those words, he hears them in Ardyn’s voice. Suddenly he doesn’t want to be exposed, he wants to cower down, burrow deep and hide. He’s expecting a blow to fall across his face, he’s expecting old scars to reopen, he’s expecting blood and bile and suffering, because he’s already got the darkness and he’s already got the words.

 

***

 

‘Dirty talk? Sure, that sounds fun.’

            They had discussed the scene before starting. Common practice, really, when starting something new. And Ignis had wanted to make sure he’d gotten everything right. What was out of bounds, what was acceptable, when it would happen, for how long. So far, he’d agreed to full penetration, and light biting, hitting and scratching provided it didn’t show too many bruises or break the skin. Dirty talk was a given, it always was between them, but this time Ignis seemed quite highly strung about the idea. He got the feeling his partner had some specific phrases in mind, and he had to admit, he was curious to find out. So he had agreed, all too hastily, and Ignis had almost immediately propped his shades further up on the bridge of his nose; an action he no longer needed to perform, but even after all these years of blindness the habit was hard to break. Ignis was worried. Scared, even. Of himself? Of what he was capable of? That seemed like a ridiculous concept to Prompto. He’d never actually hurt him.

            ‘Are you really sure, my love?’ Ignis moved to trace a finger down Prompto’s jawline. Again, it seemed like overkill, like reassurance for something that he was sure wasn’t necessary.

            ‘Yeah. I’m hardcore. I can do it.’ He chuckled, and hoped he wasn’t coming off as too light-hearted.

            He’d been keen to start the scene as soon as possible. Honestly, the tension was exciting, and he was overcome by the desire to give Ignis what he wanted, especially on their anniversary night.

            The blindfold had been his idea - he’d pushed for it. Not because he thought Ignis needed the edge over him, but because he wanted it. He got the sense it would make it easier for him to fulfil the role. He wanted no advantages.

            So they’d started, and then Ignis had loosened the bandanna from its usual position around Prompto’s upper arm, fastening it over his eyes in a flash, tugging it into a tight knot at the back of his head.

            ‘Ow! Too tight.’

            But the game had begun, and he was ignored.

 

***

 

Now the game is in full swing, as Ignis strokes his cock with no care or concern for how rough he is. He’s still wearing his gloves and it chafes. Prompto twists and strains beneath his touch, and the bandanna moves incrementally from its tight position across his eyes. He rubs his head against the wall, trying to dislodge the knot that holds it tight, trying to peek. He’s not sure he’s liking this any more.

            The motion attracts Ignis’s attention and he lets go his cock, grabs both hands either side of Prompto’s face, and presses like a vice. Prompto’s hand knocks against the shelf and he can’t extricate it easily and besides, the shoulder joint feels so horribly twisted. He leaves it, shuddering breath in as Ignis presses dangerously close to his eye sockets.

            ‘You don’t need your sight to be my slut. My plaything. Well, perhaps I may take that from you, too.’

            It’s a sour joke and it doesn’t settle well in his stomach. It’s too real, and he thinks of all those moments where Ignis has shown his frustration at his loss of sight. He wants to weep, to hold Ignis close and comfort him, to tell him it’s okay because suddenly it’s abundantly clear that this is more than just rape roleplay to his lover. This is retribution for the ills enacted upon him all those years ago in Altissia, and Prompto is just the fall guy. The target. The brightest, happiest thing Ignis can find to serve as the perfect symbol of the light that was taken away.

            He feels his heart flow over with sympathy despite the situation he’s in, and he wants so badly to say some word of acknowledgement, but all that comes out is a choked whimper. Ignis growls in response, and throws him to the floor carelessly, a bored child with a plaything that’s lost its charm.

            Prompto’s forehead hits the side of the sofa as he falls and, instinctively, his arms collapse around the roll of fabric, grasping for a hold on anything solid, anything that makes sense.

            There’s no time to make sense of it. Ignis uses the new position to his advantage, holding him down, all bent over the sofa arm with his ass exposed. Jeans still ruched halfway up his thighs and this works well for Ignis, because he’s struggling and can’t steady himself enough to fight back. Ignis laughs, a hollow sound that again doesn’t seem right coming from his throat. Usually so soft and gentle. So soft but now so hard. Ignis is unbuckling his trousers too now, and his erection is so rock-solid it doesn’t feel real pressed into his back like that. What’s happening? He’s struggling to make sense of it, and suddenly this game seems irrational.

            He whimpers again, feeling tears prick the corners of his eyes, and he gives in to Ignis’s hard grip, relaxes his muscles.

            ‘That’s right…’

            There’s lube on the table and Ignis leaps away to fumble for it before returning and pouring a liberal amount across his hands before plunging fingers into his asshole. He still hasn’t bothered to remove the gloves and even with lube it makes for a rough entry. Prompto yelps as he attempts to pry deeper.

            ‘Take it, slut. Did you not hear me? You’re nothing but a tool, _my_ tool. This is your purpose.’ Ignis slaps him hard across the buttock as he lines his cock up, inching it in slightly, just enough to get purchase, then he rams deep inside. He returns to gripping Prompto’s shoulders, yanking his back into a hard arch and he can feel _everything_ , too hard, too strong, too goddamn painful.

            He cries, _really_ cries.

            Ignis whispers again that _this is what he is for_ and all of a sudden he’s a kid again.

            He’s a child waking from recurring nightmares in his new home in Insomnia, wondering helplessly why he dreams of dark corridors and sharp objects and cold, unfeeling hands pressing down around him.

            He’s a student at the back of the classroom, thumbing the barcode tattoo hidden beneath his bracelet with mind-numbing repetition while a teacher educates them on the terrors of Niflheim and their soulless infantrymen.

            He’s a boy in a small roadside diner, trying not to hear the conversations of his fellow patrons while he focusses on his fries. _I saw a Magitek Trooper the other day. Downright unsettling._

            He’s a young man, barely an adult, restrained in a cell in the darkness, deep in the heart of Niflheim as a depraved Chancellor gloats above him, hurts him mercilessly just because he can, because he thinks he’s Imperial property, because _this is what he was built for._

            But the truth is he’s a thirty-five-year-old man who can’t leave all this behind, and all it takes is a simple phrase to send him spinning.         

            He should be over this by now.

            Ignis bites into his shoulder while he fucks him, crushing the tender flesh between shoulder blade and neck, and Prompto tenses in the face of the raw pain. It’s going to leave a mark, and Ignis said he wouldn’t, he said he wouldn’t make him bleed. The shock makes his asshole tighten around Ignis’s cock and his partner breathes out in growling shudders. Then he bites harder. Makes it happen again. And again, and then Prompto starts to lose track.

            He cries out for him to stop. Ignis mistakes it for part of the scene. He panics, cries out again, and feels Ignis ram harder into him.

            _The safeword, come on!_

            ‘Orange cake!’

            He’s actually never used the safeword before, not in all their years together. At the time of picking, it had seemed hilarious to choose one of Ignis’s favourite recipes.

            Didn’t seem so funny now.

            Ignis’s hand relaxes minutely where it’s caught up in his hair, but only to allow him to redouble his grip. Prompto thinks for a moment that he’s going to stop, but then the grip increases and it’s like he’s spending too much time considering. Then he keeps going.

            Perhaps he hasn’t heard. He can’t have heard, he wouldn’t …

            Prompto tries again.

            ‘O-orange ca …’ His voice cuts off as he’s slammed harder against the sofa arm, the hard edge beneath the upholstery pressing cruelly into his throat.

            And Ignis doesn’t stop.

            He’s reduced to shouting a thousand variants of _please_ and _no_ and _stop_ and none of it works. He’s a sobbing mess and Ignis is really losing himself in this, finding pleasure in every second of pain.

            It’s when a particularly hard thrust seems to hit some tender organ inside of him that he cries out like he’s being murdered and Ignis comes, breath all haggard and uncontrolled, grip tight enough to bruise deep to the bone as he shoots his load and fills him to the brim.

            Ignis shudders, still inside him, and switches like a light bulb, hands grasping round his stomach, arms encircling him as he hugs him from behind, still all bent over the side of the sofa in tumultuous disarray.

            ‘Oh, Prompto… you’re so good.’

            It isn’t for another agonising minute that he realises Prompto is crying.

            ‘Love? What’s… What’s wrong? Was it…’

            He immediately feels shame. It’s his fault the scene has gone wrong, that’s his first thought. And his second is the fear of the safeword being ignored. The … No, it has to be his fault, because he can’t bear the thought of making Ignis the bad guy here.

            He feels Ignis’s hands brush back his hair and then Ignis retracts himself slowly, pulling Prompto upright and hugging him close again. The soft contact is almost too much to bear.

            He should mention it, he has to.

            ‘I… I said the safeword, Iggy. I said…’ And then he breaks off, because he can’t do it, he can’t continue. It’s all too raw. His body aches at so many different points, his head throbs with near-migraine levels of pain, and his mind is in a spin.

            He hears what is perhaps the most upsetting sound he’s ever heard. Ignis, catching the breath in his throat as he realises what he’s done. Is Ignis crying too, now? He can’t tell. The blindfold is still too tight.

            Ignis pulls him up.

            ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Prompto, I… Look, let’s get you sat down, shall we?’ The strain is audible beneath Ignis’s tight attempt to rein in the chaos, to take command of the situation in the ways he knows best.

            Soon they are seated on the sofa, and it’s perhaps the only time Ignis hasn’t cared about putting towels down first, or making them clean themselves up. Ignis removes the blindfold with almost ritualistic reverence, and the room is still all low-lit the way they’d left it whilst drinking wine, but to Prompto it seems brighter than a thousand suns and just as raw and burning. He squints. It’s easier to just close his eyes again, at least for now.

            After a long while, in which Ignis is just holding his hand and rubbing the tense muscle surrounding his thumb like a mantra to calm them both, he feels he can handle it and he opens his eyes, takes in his surroundings. His small, safe flat in Lestallum. An apartment in a city of sunlight and bright, bright futures. Nothing bad from his past will ever come here, no matter how much it tries to creep in at the edges.

            Eventually Ignis speaks, and Prompto thinks that sometimes sight is a terrible gift, because it hurts now to see just how much his brow furrows, how pained his expression is.

            ‘I should never have let this happen.’ Ignis pauses to sigh deeply, and Prompto can tell he’s chastising himself. ‘No, that sounds too evasive. What I meant to say is, I should never have _made_ it happen. I did this. I …’

            Prompto shushes him with a forceful kiss on the lips, only giving Ignis time to utter a muffled sound of surprise. It’s surprising to both of them, honestly, because Prompto never figured he’d be so forward after what just happened. But the world is softer now, and perhaps that’s why. After something so shocking, showering everything with love seems like the only option.

            ‘I know how much you’re going to beat yourself up for this,’ he says, trying to push the tremors out of his body, making his voice crack and lilt. ‘We’re too similar that way.’

            Ignis sets his jaw. Yeah, he was going to ignore that advice. Instead, Ignis says,

            ‘Are you okay? I know that’s a stupid question to ask, after…’

            ‘I think so. Yeah… I think so.’

            ‘It was the bit about what you were built for, wasn’t it?’

            Prompto flinches at the mere mention of it. For a fraction of a second it’s like the wound is reopening, but he plasters it down.

            ‘It… hit a bit close to home.’

            ‘I’m sorry. I may have said that many times now, but it doesn’t make it any less true. I won’t ever hurt you like that again. I promise.’

            ‘I…’ Prompto is unsure of how to continue the sentence at first. Ignis will sniff it out in a heartbeat if he downplays any of his pain. ‘I mean, I didn’t dislike _all_ of it.’

            He knows Ignis won’t let them do anything like this again for a long while. If ever. The silence settles in again and he lets each second gather around them like snow. For a while, it is the most calming thing. Then he remembers something.

            ‘Hey, y’know, those things you said about taking my sight away…’

            Ignis grows stiff, back erect against the sofa’s plushness.

            _Aha._

            He keeps the soft tone, continues talking.

            ‘I get it now. I think.’ He re-initiates contact with Ignis’s hand and this time it’s Ignis that flinches. ‘I don’t hate you for it.’ He doesn’t know what else to say to get his point across; it’s kind of nebulous anyway. But he thinks he understands. Why Ignis might have been having this fantasy in the first place. Not like any of them had been given the chance to talk through their feelings after what happened in Altissia so many years ago. It was too cruel, and it wasn’t that weird to use re-enactment as a way to make sense of it.

            Ignis doesn’t say anything.

            He snuggles into him, face nuzzling against Ignis’s silky work shirt. There are creases all over the fabric, most uncharacteristic for him. He holds on tightly, softly, breathes in his boyfriend’s warmth, keen to pour out all his love, blanket them both in it. Ignis holds him back, gently kissing the crown of his head every now and then, whispering tender words of love and devotion beneath his breath.

            After an age, Ignis shifts.

            ‘Come on. We should clean up.’

            Prompto rises, pulls Ignis up with him. He doesn’t fetch the cane; Ignis doesn’t need it indoors. As before, he already knows the layout of the flat too well and Prompto isn’t the messy sort he used to be.

            They shower together, letting the scorching heat wash away their iniquities. Prompto leans his head against the chest of the man he loves, hears his heart beat in one ear while streaming water roars past the other, dulling the sounds of late evening merriment in the streets outside. They stay like that for a while, and it’s a thin tonic for the pain, but for now it will do.


End file.
